Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mason's Corner Folks / A Picture of New England Home Life

At this point in the proceedings the door opened and Mandy entered, bringing a large dish of big red apples and another full of cracked shellbarks. She left the room and returned almost immediately with a large dish full of popcorn.

"Have an apple?" said Ezekiel. "Help yourselves; we don't pass anything round here. We put the things on the table and each one helps himself."

Mandy came in again, bringing a large pitcher of cider and some glasses, which she placed upon the table.

While the three men were discussing their country evening lunch in silence, an animated conversation was taking place in the kitchen, the participants being Mandy, Mrs. Bridget Crowley, and Hiram, who always dropped in during the evening to get his glass of cider, a luxury that was not dispensed at Deacon Mason's.

"Well," said Mandy, "I think it's wasteful extravagance for you Irish folks to spend so much money on carriages when one of your friends happens to die. As you just said, when you lived in Boston you own up you spent fourteen dollars in one month going to funerals, and you paid a dollar a seat each time."

"I did that," said Mrs. Crowley, "and I earned every bit of it doing washing, for Pat, bless his sowl, was out of work at the time."

"Just think of that!" said Mandy, turning to Hiram.

"Well, it can't be helped," said Mrs. Crowley, obstinately. "Shure and if I don't go to folks' funerals they won't come to mine."

"Have you got any soft soap here in the kitchen?" asked Hiram.

"No," said Mandy, "I used the last this afternoon. I shall have to go out in the shed to-morrow morning and get some."

"You wouldn't be likely to go out to-night for any?" asked Hiram.

"I guess not," said Mandy. "Why, there is rats out in that shed as big as kittens. Did you want to use some?"

"No," said Hiram, "but I didn't want you to have any 'round handy, for I am bound to tell you I heard Strout telling the minister's son that Lindy Putnam writ a letter to Mr. Sawyer and mailed it at Mason's Corner post office this mornin', and it was directed to Eastborough Centre, and Strout said it looked as though they were keeping up correspondence. I tell you that made 'Manuel Howe mad, for he's gone on Lindy Putnam himself, and then Strout said that probably all the fellers in town would have to put off getting married until that city chap had decided which one of the girls he wanted himself. And now, hang it," said Hiram, "he has come to live in this house, and I sha'n't have any peace of mind."

Hiram dodged the first apple Mandy threw at his head, but the second one hit him squarely, and he gave a loud "Oh!"

"Stop your noise," said Mandy, "or Mr. Pettengill will be out here. I'll ask them if they want anything else," as she rapped on the door. There was no response and she opened it and looked in. "Why, they have all gone to bed," she said. At that moment the old clock in the kitchen struck nine. "It's nine o'clock and you had better be going home, Hiram Maxwell."

Mandy approached him quite closely and looked at his forehead; as she did so she turned up her nose and puckered her mouth. Her arms were hanging by her side. Hiram grasped her around the waist, holding both of her arms tight, and before Mandy could break away he gave her a kiss full on the mouth.

He made a quick rush for the door, opened it and dashed out into the night. Luckily for him there was no moon and he was out of sight before Mandy could recover her self-possession and reach the door. She peered out into the darkness for a moment; then she closed the door and bolted it, took a lamp and went up to her own room. Standing in front of her looking glass, she turned up her nose and puckered up her mouth as she had done when facing Hiram.

"That's the first time Hiram Maxwell ever kissed me," she said to herself, "Mebbe it will be the last time and mebbe it won't." Then she said reflectively, "I didn't think the little fellow had so much spunk in him."

In a quarter of an hour she was dreaming of cupids, and hearts, and arrows, and St. Valentine's Day, which was not so very far away.

A LONG LOST RELATIVE.

Ezekiel Pettengill owned what Deacon Mason did not—a nice carryall and a good road horse. Ezekiel would fix no price, but Quincy would not drive him unless he paid for the use of the team. One dollar for half a day, two dollars for a whole day, were the prices finally fixed upon.

Quincy drove first to Mrs. Putnam's. As he was ascending the steps the front door was opened and Lindy stood there to welcome him, which she did by extending her hand and then showing him into the parlor. She was evidently on the point of going out, for she had on her outdoor garments. After a few commonplaces relating to health and the weather, Quincy abruptly approached the object of his visit by saying, "I received your letter, Miss Putnam, and I have come to see if I can be of any service to you."

"Oh! I know you can," said Lindy; "you are wealthy—"

"I beg your pardon," interposed Quincy, "I am not what they call a wealthy young man; the fact that my father is possessed of a large fortune has probably given rise to the incorrect impression just repeated by you."

"I understand," said Lindy, with a laugh. "What I meant to say was, that you are undoubtedly acquainted with wealthy gentlemen, who know the best ways of investing money. I find my money a great trouble to me," she continued. "I had $25,000 invested in a first mortgage, but the property has been sold and the money repaid to me, and I don't know what to do with it."

"The obvious thing to do," remarked Quincy, "is to invest it at once, so that it will begin paying you interest."

"That is just what I wished to see you about," responded Lindy. "How would you advise me to invest it?" she asked.

"I would not presume," replied Quincy, "to give positive advice in such a case. I would go either to Foss & Follansbee, or Braithwaite & Mellen, or perhaps Rothwell Brothers & Co., look over the securities they have for sale and make my own selection, if I were in your place."

Lindy was manifestly disappointed at Quincy's polite refusal to recommend any particular security, but she evidently realized that further argument or entreaty would be useless, so she quickly changed the subject by remarking that her mother had considerable money invested, but that she was a woman who never took any advice and never gave any.

"I wonder who my mother is going to leave her money to? Do you know, Mr. Sawyer?"

Quincy replied that he did not. "But she did tell me that by the terms of your brother's will you were not to inherit it."

"Well, if you ever find out," said Lindy, "you will tell me, won't you, Mr. Sawyer?"

"Yes," said Quincy, "unless I am requested to keep it a secret."

"But you wouldn't keep it from me, their own daughter," said Lindy.

"Well," he replied, "I don't think it at all likely that they will inform me; but I promise to tell you if I learn who it is and am not bound in any way to keep the information secret."

"And will you tell me just as soon as you know?" persisted Lindy.

"Thank you," said Lindy. "Would you like to see father and mother? Father has been quite sick for a few days and they are in their own room. I will go up and tell them you are coming."

Quincy was left in the room. That gossip about Miss Putnam could not be true. Gossip said she was ashamed of her father and mother, and yet she had invited him to go up and see them. What a pretty girl she was, well educated and with a hundred thousand dollars; such a beautiful singer and their voices blended so nicely together. How pleased his mother and sisters would be if he should bring home a wife like her. On the wall hung an oil portrait of her, evidently painted within a short time. He sat looking at it as Lindy opened the door.

Before he could remove his eyes from the picture, Lindy had noticed his fixed gaze at it and smiled brightly.

"Mother would be delighted to see you."

Lindy rang a small bell that was on a table. In a moment Samanthy entered the room.

"Samantha, please show Mr. Sawyer to mother's room. Will you excuse me, Mr. Sawyer, if I am not here to say good-by to you after you have seen mother? I am going to the city this morning and there—" looking out of the window—"here comes Abner Stiles; he is going to drive me over to Eastborough. Did you ever meet Mr. Stiles, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I may have seen him," replied Quincy.

"Seeing him is nothing," said Lindy. "He must be heard to be appreciated. He is a most engaging talker; he has caught the biggest fish and killed the biggest bears—"

"And told the biggest lies," broke in Quincy,—

"Of any man in town," Lindy concluded.

Lindy looked up and smiled. "He will never forgive us for what we did at the concert," said she, "Well, I mustn't keep Mr. Stiles waiting any longer, if I do he may—"

"Try to compete with the other one," added Quincy.

She smiled again, and gave him her little gloved hand, which he took in his for an instant.

She ran out quickly and got into the team, which immediately drove off. Samanthy, who had been waiting impatiently in the hallway, ushered Quincy into an upper chamber, where sat Mrs. Putnam. Her husband was reclining on a lounge near the fire.

"Well, I am awful glad to see yer," said Mrs. Putnam. "Silas here hasn't been feelin' fust rate for more'n a week. He's most frozen to death all the time. So I got him up front of the fire, same as I used to roast turkeys. Set down, Mr. Sawyer, and tell me all the news. Have you heerd anybody going to git engaged or anybody going to git married? I heerd as how you had left Deacon Mason's. So you 'cided to take my advice. I'm kinder sorry you tipped the buggy over, for Huldy Mason's a nice girl. The fact is I was thinkin' more of her than I was of you, when I told yer you'd better git out. Where be yer boardin' now?"

"I am boarding at Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's. His sister has got home and his Uncle Isaac has come back to live with him."

"Lord sakes, do tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "I allus thought that old fool would die out there in the woods and they'd bury him in his chicken coop. But what on airth is Alice home for? Has she lost her job?"

Mrs. Putnam sank back in her chair.

"If I didn't think you were a truthful man, Mr. Sawyer, I wouldn't b'lieve a word you said. My poor Alice. Why, do you know, Mr. Sawyer, I never saw a human being in all my life that I liked so much as I have Alice Pettengill. Did you ever see her, Mr. Sawyer?"

"No," said Quincy, "she only arrived yesterday afternoon, and she did not appear at supper nor at breakfast this morning. She was tired and wished to rest, her brother told me."

"Well, I hope she won't die," said Mrs. Putnam. "I have left her every dollar I've got in the world, and if she should die I shouldn't know who on airth to give it to. Well, there, I've let the cat out of the bag, and my daughter Lindy, mean as she is about money, would give a thousand dollars to know who I am goin' to leave my money to. I wish I could see Alice. I can't walk, and that poor, deaf girl can't see. Why, Mr. Sawyer, I think she's the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever sot eyes on in my life, and I've seed a good many on 'em. Now you tell me what you think of her the next time you come up, won't you, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I certainly will," said Quincy, "and if she will come with me I will bring her over to see you. If she came from Boston with her brother, she can surely ride as far as this," he added.

"Tell her I shall count every minute till she, comes over here, but don't say a word to her about my money," said Mrs. Putnam.

"Certainly not," Quincy answered. "You did not intend to tell me."

"No, I didn't," acknowledged Mrs. Putnam, "it slipped out before I thought."

Quincy arose. "I must go now, Mrs. Putnam. I have business at Eastborough Centre, and I don't know how long it will take me, and besides, I am anxious to see Miss Pettengill after your glowing description of her beauty and her virtues."

"Well, I haven't put the paint on half as thick as it would stand," said Mrs. Putnam. "Well, good-by, Mr. Sawyer. It's very kind in you to come and see two old folks like us. No use saying good-by to Silas; he's stone deef and besides he's sound asleep."

When Quincy took up the reins and started towards Eastborough Centre it was with conflicting emotions. If there had been no Alice Pettengill to see, his thoughts, no doubt, would have related chiefly to Lindy Putnam, who had never attracted his attention before as she had that morning. Could Alice Pettengill be as pretty and as good as Mrs. Putnam had portrayed? And she was to be an heiress. He was sorry that Mrs. Putnam had told him. When he was talking to Miss Pettengill what he knew would be continually in his mind. He was glad that she was to have the money, but very sorry that he knew she was to have it; he had promised not to tell her, but he had promised to tell Lindy. Mrs. Putnam had not told him not to tell Lindy, but she had said Lindy would give a thousand dollars to know. Now, was that the same as requesting him not to tell Lindy, and should he tell Lindy for nothing what her mother said she would give a thousand dollars to know? Anyhow, that question must be decided within the next twenty-four hours.

Then he began to think of his intended visit to Eastborough Poorhouse. Would the Jim Sawyer that he found there turn out to be his own uncle? What a sweet morsel that would be for Strout if it proved to be true. Anyhow, he would follow his father's instructions and do all he could for his uncle, come what might.

Since he had arrived at Mason's Corner everything that he had done seemed to give rise to gossip, and a little more of it could do no harm.

Quincy reached the Poorhouse and inquired for the keeper. A very stout, red-faced man answered the summons.

He informed Quincy that his name was Asa Waters, and that he had been keeper of the town Poorhouse for the last ten years.

Quincy thought from his size, as he evidently weighed between three and four hundred pounds, that he had probably eaten all the food supplied for the inmates. In reply to a direct question whether there was a man there by the name of Jim Sawyer, Mr. Waters said "yes," but that he was sick abed and had been for the last week.

"He coughs awful," said Waters; "in fact, I had to change his room because the rest of us couldn't sleep. When we tried to move him he became sort of crazy like, and it took three on us to get him out of the room and take him upstairs. He seems sot on getting back in that room. The other day he crawled down stairs and we found him trying to get into the room, but I had it locked and we had another fight to get him upstairs again."

"Well," said Quincy, "I would like to see him; it may be he is a distant relative of our family. My father wishes me to talk with him and make the inquiry anyway."

"What mought your name be?" asked Mr. Waters.

"My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer."

"Oh, yes, I remember you," said Waters. "Wasn't you the singer that Mr. Strout hired to come down from Boston to sing at his concert. Strout told me he paid you $50 for singing that night, and by gosh it was worth it."

Quincy was not a profane young man, but he had to smother an oath on hearing that. He replied, "Yes, I sang that night."

"And," said Waters, "didn't you whistle that piece, Listen to the Bobolink, fine?"

"Here, Sam," said he to a young fellow who appeared in sight, "show this gentleman up to Jim Sawyer's room; I'm getting kind of pussy, and I don't go upstairs much."

Sam performed his mission and Quincy was ushered into the room and found himself with the sick man.

"Is your name James Sawyer?" asked Quincy.

"Yes," said the man. "I used to be proud of it once."

"Did you have a brother?" asked Quincy.

"Well," said Jim, "I don't think he would be proud of me now, so I guess I won't claim any relationship."

Quincy stopped for a moment. Evidently the man's pride would keep him from telling anything about himself. He would try him on a new tack. The man had a long fit of coughing. When it had subsided, Quincy said, "It wearies you to talk. I will do the talking, and if what I say is true you can nod your head." Quincy continued, "Your name is James Edward Sawyer, your brother's name was Nathaniel." The man opened his eyes wide and looked steadfastly at him. "Your father, Edward Sawyer, left you fifty thousand dollars." The man clutched with both hands at the quilt on the bed. "You are about sixty years of age." The man nodded. "You married a young girl who lived in the country and took her to Boston with you; her maiden name was Eunice Raymond."

The man started up in bed, resting on his elbow. "How did you know all this?" asked he. "Who has told you this? Who are you?"

The exertion and the rapid speaking brought on another fit of coughing and he fell back on his pillow.

"If what I have said is true," remarked Quincy quietly, "your brother, Nathaniel, is my father, and I am your nephew, Quincy Adams Sawyer."

"Who sent you to see me?" asked the man.

"I heard," replied Quincy, "that a man named James Sawyer was in the Eastborough Poorhouse. I wrote to my father, and in his reply he told me what I have just said to you. If you are my uncle, father says to do everything I can to help you, and if he had not said so I would have done it anyway."

"It is all true," said the man faintly. "I squandered the money my father left me. I married a sweet, young girl and took her to the city. I tried to introduce her into the set to which I once belonged. It was a failure. I was angry, not with myself for expecting too much, but with her because she gave me too little, as I then thought. We had two children—a boy named Ray and a little girl named Mary, after my mother."

"My grandmother," said Quincy.

James Sawyer continued: "I took to drink. I abused the woman whose only fault had been that she had loved me. I neglected to provide for my family. My wife fell sick, my two little children died, and my wife soon followed them. I returned from a debauch which had lasted me for about a month to find that I was alone in the world. I fled from the town where we had lived, came here and tried to reform. I could not. I fell sick and they sent me here to the Poorhouse. I have had no ambition to leave. I knew if I did it would mean the same old life. I am glad you came. I cannot tell you how glad. I do not wish for any assistance; the town will care for me as long as I live, which will not be very long; but your coming enables me to perform an act of justice which otherwise I could not have done."

"Tell me in what way I can serve you," said Quincy, "and it shall be done."

"Look outside of the door," said the man, "and see if anybody is listening."

Quincy opened the door suddenly and the broad face of Mr. Asa Waters stood revealed.

"I thought I would come up and see if Mr. Sawyer wanted anything."

"If he does," said Quincy, "I will inform you;" and he closed the door in Mr. Waters's face.

Quincy waited till he heard his ponderous footsteps descending the stairs at the foot of the hallway.

"Was old Waters out there listening?" asked Jim Sawyer.

"I don't think he had time to hear anything," Quincy replied.

"Come closer," said Jim; "let me whisper. I am not penniless. I have got some money. I have five thousand dollars in government bonds. I sold some stock I owned just before I went off on that last debauch, but I didn't spend all the money. When I die I want you to pay back to the town of Eastborough every dollar I owe for board. Don't let anybody know you got the money from me. Pay it yourself and keep the balance of it yourself."

"Where is the money?" said Quincy.

"It is down in my old room, No. 24, one flight down from here, at the other end of the hallway. I have got a key that will open the door. I made it myself. I nearly got in there the other day, but they caught me before I had a chance to open the door. If you can get in there take up the fourth brick from the window, second row from the front of the fireplace, and you will find the bonds in an old leather wallet. What time is it?" he asked quickly.

"Half-past eleven," replied Quincy.

"Now is your time," said the man; "all the hands have their dinner from half-past eleven to twelve; at twelve they feed us; take this key, and if you get the money, for God's sake come around to-morrow and let me know. I sha'n't sleep a wink till I hear from you."

Quincy pressed the sick man's hand and left the room. He went downstairs on tiptoe and quickly reached room No. 24. He listened; all was quiet; it took but an instant to open the door, and, slipping quietly in, he locked it after him. With some difficulty he found the wallet, looked inside and saw five one thousand dollar United States bonds. He put the wallet in his pocket, replaced the brick, and listened at the door; all was quiet. He unlocked it, slipped out, locked it, and was retracing his steps, when he saw Sam coming upstairs at the other end of the hallway.

"I think I took the wrong turn," said Quincy. "I thought I came up that way."

"No," said Sam; "that's the back way."

"Thank you," said Quincy, as he ran lightly downstairs. At the foot he met Mr. Waters.

"Well, is he any relative of yours?" asked Waters.

"I don't know yet," replied Quincy; "he has given me some facts, and I am going to write to Boston, and when I hear from there I will be able to answer your question. I will come around in a few days, as soon as I hear from the city."

Quincy jumped into his team and drove to Eastborough Centre post office to see if there were any letters for him.

When he reached the post office he found a letter from his father, informing him his mother and sisters were going to New York for a two weeks' visit and would very much like to see him if he would run up the next day.

Quincy's mind was made up instantly. He drove to the hotel, left the team, with instructions to have it ready for him when he came down on the express that reached Eastborough Centre at 7.15 P.M., ran for the station and caught on to the back platform of the last car as it sped on its way to Boston.

His next trip was to his father's house on Beacon Street, where he found his mother and sisters. They were overjoyed to see him, and his younger sister declared that he had grown better looking since he went away. She wanted to know if he had fallen in love with a country girl. Quincy replied that his heart was still free and if it wasn't for the law he would have her for his wife, and no one else. Maude laughed and slapped him.

He next rode to his father's office on Court Street. The Hon. Nathaniel had just lunched at Parker's and was enjoying a good cigar when his son came in.

Quincy told him that the Jim Sawyer at Eastborough Poorhouse was unquestionably their missing relative.

"Poor Jim," said Nathaniel; "I ought to go and see him."

"No; I wouldn't," said Quincy, "it will do no good, and his remorse is deep enough now without adding to it."

He then told his father about the money, and the latter agreed that Jim's idea was right and Quincy had best use the money as though it were his own.

"By the by," said his father, wheeling round in his office chair, "that Miss Putnam from Eastborough is a very pretty girl; don't you think so, Quincy?"

"Handsome is as handsome does," thought Quincy to himself, but he only said, "Where did you see her?"

"She was in here to-day," replied his father. "She said she had $25,000 to invest, and that you gave her the address of some broker, but that she had forgotten it."

"Her statement is partially true," said Quincy, "but not complete. I gave her three addresses, because I did not wish to recommend any particular one. I wished her to make her own choice."

"Did she confide in you any farther," said Quincy.

"Oh, yes," replied his father; "I gleaned she was worth $100,000 and that her parents, who were very old people, had nearly as much more. I remember her brother, J. Jones Putnam. He was a 'plunger,' and a successful one. He died suddenly of lung fever, I believe."

Quincy smiled.

"She seemed to be well educated," his father continued, "and told me that you and she sang together at a concert."

"Did she tell you what her father's religion was?" inquired Quincy.

"You don't seem to admire this young lady, Quincy. I thought she would be likely to be a great friend of yours. You might do worse than—"

"I know," said Quincy, "she is pretty, well educated, musical, very tasteful in dress, and has money, but she can't have me. But how did it end?" asked he; "how did you get rid of her?"

"Well," replied his father, "as I said before, I thought she must be a great friend of yours, and perhaps more, so I went down to Foss & Follansbee's with her; then we went to Parker's to lunch, then I sent her to the station in a coupe."

"I am greatly obliged to you, father," said Quincy, "for the kind attentions you paid her. I shall get the full credit of them down in Eastborough; your name will not be mentioned; only," said Quincy with a laugh, "if she is coming to the city very often I think perhaps I had better come back to Boston and look after mother's interests."

The Hon. Nathaniel was nettled by this and said sternly, "I do not like that sort of pleasantry, Quincy."

"Neither do I," said Quincy coolly, "and I hope there will be no further occasion for it."

"How long do you intend to remain in Eastborough?" asked his father.

"I don't know," replied Quincy. "I can't come home while Uncle Jim is sick, of course. I will ask him if he would like to see you, and if he says yes, I will telegraph you. Well, good-by. I was up to the house and saw mother and the girls. I am going up to the club to see if I can meet some of the boys and have some dinner, and I shall go down on the 6.05 express."

Quincy lighted a cigar, shook hands rather stiffly with his father and left the office.

When Quincy reached the Pettengill house it was a little after eight o'clock. Hiram came out to help him put up the horse. "Anybody up?" asked Quincy.

"Only Mandy and me," said Hiram. "Uncle Ike is up in his attic, and 'Zeke is up talkin' to his sister, and Mandy and me has been talkin' to each other; and, say, Mr. Sawyer, did you meet Lindy Putnam up in Boston to-day?"

"No," said Quincy between his shut teeth.

"Well, that's funny," said Hiram; "I heard Abner Stiles telling Strout as how Miss Putnam told him that Mr. Sawyer had been to the banker's with her to invest her money, and that Mr. Sawyer took her out to lunch and then rode down to the station in a carriage and put her aboard the train."

"There are a great many Mr. Sawyers in Boston, you must remember, Hiram," remarked Quincy. "Anything else, Hiram?"

"Well, not much more," replied Hiram; "but Strout said that if you got Lindy and her money and then cajoled the old couple into leavin' their money to you, that it would be the best game of bunco that had ever been played in Eastborough."

"Well, Strout ought to know what a good bunco game is," said Quincy. "Have the horse ready by nine o'clock in the morning if you can get over. Good night, Hiram," he said.

He passed through the kitchen, saying good night to Mandy, and went straight to his own room. He sat and thought for an hour, going over the events of the day.

"As soon as Uncle Jim is dead and buried," said he to himself, "I think I will leave this town. As the children say when they play 'hide and go seek,' I am getting warm."

A PROMISE KEPT.

Quincy was up next morning at eight o'clock and ate his breakfast with 'Zekiel. 'Zekiel said his sister did not sleep well nights, and so would not be down till later.

"Do you want the team this morning, Mr. Pettengill?" asked Quincy.

"No," said 'Zekiel, "but the Boston doctor wrote to Deacon Mason that he was comin' down this afternoon to take that stuff off Huldy's arm, and she wanted me to come up, so I shall be up there all the afternoon."

"That reminds me," said Quincy. "Will you tell Deacon Mason that I want the nurse to stay until to-morrow and I will be up to see her at nine o'clock?"

Quincy took up the reins and started for Eastborough Poorhouse.

He found his uncle weaker than on the day before. Quincy touched his hand, but did not lift it from the bed. Jim pointed towards the door.

"It's all right," said Quincy, "there is no one there."

"Did you get it?" asked Uncle Jim in a whisper.

"Yes," replied Quincy, "and it's safe in the bank in Boston."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Uncle Jim. "Now I don't care how soon I am called to judgment for my sins."

"Uncle Jim," said Quincy, "I saw my father yesterday afternoon. Would you like to have your brother come see you?"

Uncle Jim shook his head. "It will do no good," said he. "You have done all I could wish for. Pay the town for my board. Give them what they ask. Do with the balance what you wish, Quincy. It is yours."

"Where do you wish to be buried, Uncle?" asked Quincy bravely.

"Right here," replied Uncle Jim. "One of the boys here died about a month ago; his name was Tom Buck. He was a good fellow and did many kind things for me. Bury me side of him."

"One more question, Uncle," said Quincy. "In what town did your wife and children reside when they died?"

"In Amesbury," said Uncle Jim. An idea seemed to strike him. "Well, Quincy, do you suppose you could find where they are buried?"

"Of course I can," Quincy answered.

"Well," continued Uncle Jim, "I don't deserve it, I am not worthy of it, but she always loved me, and so did the children. I never struck her, nor them, nor did I ever speak unkindly to them. I never went home when I was drunk. I deserted them and left them to suffer. I don't think she would object, do you?"

Quincy divined his thoughts and answered, "No, I do not, Uncle."

"If you will do it, Quincy," said Uncle Jim, "I shall die a happy man. Buy a little lot and put me beside Eunice and the children. Don't put my name on the stone, put her name and those of the children. That will please me best. She will know I am there, but others will not."

"It shall be done as you say, Uncle," said Quincy. "I will be here early to-morrow morning and I shall come every day to see you. Good-by."

He touched his uncle's hand again softly and left the room. Uncle Jim, with a smile upon his wasted face, fell asleep.

Quincy drove leisurely towards Mason's Corner. It was more than twenty-four hours since he had learned who was to be Mrs. Putnam's heiress. He had made a promise. Should he keep it? How could he avoid keeping it? He would see Miss Putnam and be governed by circumstances.

He reached the Putnam house and was shown into the same room as on the morning before. In a few minutes Lindy joined him. He had never seen her looking better. She had on a handsome gown that he had never seen before. Quincy opened the conversation.

"Did you enjoy your trip to Boston yesterday, Miss Putnam?"

"Oh, yes," replied Lindy, "I must tell you all about it."

"There is no need to, Miss Putnam, I am acquainted with the most important events of your trip already."

"Why, how?" asked Lindy. "Oh, I see," said she, "you had a letter from your father."

"No," said Quincy. "I had the pleasure of a conversation with my father yesterday afternoon in Boston."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Lindy.

"Yes," said Quincy, "but I might have learned all the principal facts without leaving Mason's Corner. In fact, I did learn them in a somewhat distorted shape late last evening."

Lindy colored until her forehead was as red as her cheeks.

"I do not understand you, Mr. Sawyer," she remarked.

"It is easily explained," said Quincy. "Mr. Stiles forgot to mention that it was my father who was your escort and not myself. Of course he would offer the similarity in names as his excuse."

"And so," said Lindy, recovering herself, "you have come here to scold me because Abner Stiles didn't tell the truth. I told you he was a wonderful story teller."

"No, Miss Putnam," said Quincy, "I did not come here for any such purpose. I made you a promise yesterday and I have come to keep it. I know who is to inherit your mother's money. She did not intend to tell me, but the name escaped her unintentionally."

"Did she ask you not to tell me?" asked Lindy.

"No," replied Quincy, "not in so many words."

"Then you must tell me," cried Lindy eagerly.

"Well, I don't know," said Quincy. "Your mother said you would give a thousand dollars to know the name of the person. This fixes the condition on which I shall divulge the name."

"And if I did give you a thousand dollars," inquired Lindy, "what would you do with the money?"

"I should give it to your mother," said Quincy. "She fixed the price of the secret, not I."

Lindy walked to the window and looked out. She wished to know the name. She had her suspicions, but she could not bear to give up a thousand dollars of her own money, for she knew that this, too, would go to the unknown heiress. She knew Alice Pettengill was in town and at her brother's house. She had been there for a whole day and parts of two others. She would save her money and at the same time learn the truth.

Turning to Quincy she said, "I cannot afford to pay you, or rather my mother, a thousand dollars for the secret. It is not worth it. I will not ask you again for her name, but if you will answer me one simple question I will absolve you from your promise."

They faced each other, she hardly able to conceal her impatience, he with a stern look upon his face.

"My simple question is this, Mr. Sawyer, have you ever eaten a meal at the same table with my mother's heiress?"

"I have never seen her," replied Quincy coldly. He took his hat, and with a low bow quitted the house and drove away.

Lindy threw herself in a passion on the sofa and burst into a flood of tears. She had played her last card and had lost.

AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION.

When Quincy drove into the barn he found Jim Cobb there, and he turned the horse over to him. Entering by the back door he passed through the kitchen without seeing either Mandy or Mrs. Crowley, and went slowly upstairs. The house was very quiet. He remembered that Uncle Ike had gone to Eastborough Centre and 'Zekiel had gone to Deacon Mason's. It was necessary for him to pass the door of the room occupied by Alice Pettengill in order to reach his own room. The door of her room was open. He involuntarily glanced in and then stood still.

What vision was this that met his eye? The sun, now dropping to the westward, threw its rays in at the window and they fell upon the head of the young girl seated beside it.

"Is that you, Uncle Ike?" she asked in a clear, sweet voice. "I heard you drive in."

She had started in a straight line towards the door, but for some cause, perhaps the bright light coming from the wood fire in the open fireplace, she swerved in her course and would have walked directly towards the blazing wood had not Quincy rushed forward, caught her by the hand and stopped her further progress, saying as he did so, "Miss Pettengill, you will set your dress on fire."

"You are not Uncle Ike," said she, quickly. "He could not walk as fast as that. Who are you? You must know me, for you called me by name."

Quincy replied, "Under the circumstances, Miss Pettengill, I see no way but to introduce myself. I am your brother's boarder, and my name is Sawyer."

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Sawyer," said she, extending her hand, which Quincy took. "I feel acquainted with you already, for Uncle Ike speaks of you very often, and 'Zekiel said you used to board at Deacon Mason's. Don't you think Huldy is a lovely girl?"

Quincy avoided this direct question and replied, "Uncle Ike has been equally kind in speaking of his niece, Miss Pettengill, so that I feel acquainted with her even without this,—I was going to say formal introduction,—but I think that we must both confess it was rather informal."

Alice laughed merrily. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Sawyer? I have been alone nearly all day, and have really been very lonesome."

She turned and groped, as if feeling for a chair. Quincy sprang forward, placed a large rocking chair before the fire, then, taking her hand, saw her safely ensconced in it. He then took a seat in a large armchair at the end of the fireplace nearest the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Sawyer," said Alice. "Everybody has been so kind to me since I have had this trouble with my eyes. Of course 'Zekiel has told you about it."

"Yes," assented Quincy.

He really did not care to talk. He was satisfied to sit and look at her, and he could do this with impunity, for she could not see his earnest gaze fixed upon her.

"I have been used to an active life," said Alice. "I have had my business to attend to every day, and evenings I had my books, papers, pictures, and music. At first it seemed so hard to be shut out from them all, but years ago Uncle Ike taught me to be a philosopher and to take life as it came, without constantly fretting or finding fault. Uncle Ike says, 'It is not work but worry that wears men out,' That's why he came down here to live in the woods. He said they wouldn't let him work and so he worried all the time, but when he came here he had plenty to do, and in his work he found happiness."

"I am learning a good lesson," said Quincy with a laugh. "I have studied much, but I actually never did a day's work in all my life, Miss Pettengill."

"Then you are to be pitied," said Alice frankly; "but I see I should not blame you, you are studying now and getting ready to work."

"Perhaps so," Quincy remarked. "My father wishes me to be a lawyer, but I detest reading law, and have no inclination to follow in my father's footsteps."

"Perhaps you are too young," said Alice, "to settle upon your future career. I cannot see you, you know, and Uncle Ike did not say how old you were."

Quincy smiled. "I am in my twenty-fourth year," said he. "I graduated at Harvard two years ago."

"So old!" exclaimed Alice; "why, I am not twenty-one until next June, and I have been working for my living since I was sixteen."

Quincy said, "I wish I had as honorable a record."

"Now you are vexed with me for speaking so plainly," said Alice.

"Not at all," Quincy replied. "I thank you for it. I have learned from Uncle Ike that frankness of speech and honesty of heart are Pettengill characteristics."

"You might add," said Alice, "firmness in debate, for none of us like to own up that we are beaten. I remember years ago Uncle Ike and I had a long discussion as to whether it were better to be stone blind or stone deaf. I took the ground that it was better to be blind, for one could hear music and listen to the voices of friends, and hear the sound of approaching danger, and then, besides, everybody is so kind to a person who is blind. But you see Uncle Ike don't care for music, and had rather talk himself than listen, so he decided that it was best to be stone deaf, for then he could read and write to his friends. But of course neither of us gave in, and the question, so far as we are concerned, is still unsettled."

At that moment the sound of a team was heard, and a few minutes later Uncle Ike came upstairs, followed by the driver of the team bearing a big basket and a large bundle. These contained Uncle Ike's purchases.

"Wait a minute and I will go upstairs with you," called out Uncle Ike to the man. He entered the room, and looking somewhat surprised at seeing Quincy, he said somewhat sharply, "So you two have got acquainted, have you? I have been waiting for two days to introduce you."

"I am greatly indebted to Mr. Sawyer," said Alice. "When he passed my door, which was open, I thought it was you and I started forward to meet you, but I missed my way and was walking directly towards the fire, when Mr. Sawyer interposed."

Quincy thought that it was noticeably evident that the Pettengills were noted for plainness of speech.

"Here are three letters for you, Alice, and here is one for you, Mr. Sawyer. I thought I would bring it over to you as I met Asa Waters down to the post office and he said you'd started for home. I'll be down in a few minutes, Alice, and read your letters for you." And Uncle Ike showed the man the way up to his domicile.

Quincy arose, expressed his pleasure at having met Miss Pettengill, and presuming they would meet again at dinner, took his leave.

The letter was from Quincy's father. It was short, but was long enough to cause Quincy to smother an oath, crush the letter in his hands and throw it into the open fire. The flames touched it, and the strong draught took it still ablaze up the wide-mouthed chimney.

But Quincy's unpleasant thought did not go with it. The letter had said, "Quinnebaug stock has dropped off five points. Foss & Follansbee have written Miss Putnam that she must put up five thousand dollars to cover margin. Better see her at once and tell her the drop is only temporary, and the stock is sure to recover."

Quincy sat down in his easy-chair, facing the fire, upon which he put some more wood, which snapped and crackled.

The young girl placed her hand upon his arm and asked a question. The young man dropped the paper and gazed into the girl's face with a look full of tenderness, and placing one of his hands upon that of the young girl clasped it fondly, and Quincy saw that the face of this young man was his own. He sat there until there came a loud rap upon the door and Mandy's voice called out, "Supper's ready."

THE COURTIN'.

While Quincy was taking his first steps in Lover's Lane, which steps so often lead to the high road of Matrimony, 'Zekiel Pettengill had reached the end of his lane, which had been very long with many devious turns, and he found himself at that point where the next important question was to fix the day.

'Zekiel was a strong-minded, self-willed, self-reliant young man, but in the presence of Huldy Mason he was as big a coward as the world ever saw. She had sent a little note to him, saying that she wished to see him that afternoon, and he knew their fates would be decided that day. He was hopeful, but the most hopeful lover has spasms of uncertainty until his lady love has said yes and yes again.

Dressed in his best, 'Zekiel knocked at Deacon Mason's front door. For an instant he wished himself safe at home and debated whether he could get round the corner of the house before the door was opened. He turned his head to measure the distance, but at that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Mason's smiling face was before him, and her pleasant, cheery voice said, "Come in, 'Zekiel."

'Zekiel went upstairs deliberately, one step at a time. His footfalls, it seemed to him, must be heard all over the house. He paused before Huldy's door. He opened it a couple of inches, when the thought struck him that he ought to knock. He started to close the door and do so, when he heard a faint voice say, "Come in, 'Zekiel." So he was still 'Zekiel to Huldy. He opened the door and walked bravely into the room, but his bravery forsook him when he had taken a few steps. He had expected to find her in bed, as she had been every day before when he had called. But there she stood before him, the same Huldy as of old. Not exactly the same, however, for her cheeks had lost much of their rosy tint and there was a pensive look to the face that was new to it, which 'Zekiel saw, but could not understand.

There were two chairs close together before the fire. She sat down in the left-hand one and motioned 'Zekiel to the other, which he took.

"I thought I would find you abed," said 'Zekiel. "I didn't know you were up."

"Oh, yes," said Huldy. "I got up and dressed as soon as the doctor took the jacket, that's what he called it, off my arm. I felt so much better I couldn't stay in bed any longer."

"Well," said 'Zekiel, "when the schoolmaster used to tell me to take my jacket off I didn't feel near as well as I did before," and then they both laughed heartily.

They sat silent for a few moments, when Huldy, turning her face with that sad look towards him, said, "There is something on my mind, 'Zekiel, that I wish I could take off as easily as the doctor did that jacket."

"Oh, nonsense," cried 'Zekiel; "why should you have anything on your mind? You are a little bit low spirited because you have been cooped up in bed so long."

"No," said Huldy, "that isn't it. I have wronged a person and I am afraid that person will never fully forgive me. I am real sorry for what I have done, and I am going to tell the person and ask for pardon."

"Well," said 'Zekiel, "the person must be pretty mean spirited if he or she don't forgive you after you say you are sorry, 'specially if you promise not to do it again."

"Oh, I shall never do it again," said Huldy. "Once has nearly killed me. I suffered ten times more from that than from my broken arm."

"Well," said 'Zekiel, "if that person don't forgive you I don't want anything more to do with him."

"Well," remarked 'Zekiel, "I have in my mind two persons whose relations were pretty similar up to a certain point."

"Yes," said Huldy, eagerly, "and that point was reached when a young man from the city, whose father was known to be very wealthy, came to board in her father's house." Huldy looked at 'Zekiel inquiringly.

"Yes, I've heard of something like that," said 'Zekiel.

"For a time," continued Huldy, "the young girl was unfaithful to her old-time lover. She thought the young man from the city was learning to love her because he was polite and attentive to her. She thought it would be nice to be rich and go to the city to live, but the young man soon undeceived her. He took her to ride one day, and on their way home he told her he was going to leave her father's house. She wished to know the reason, but he would not give it. She divined it, however, and in her agitation lost control of the horse she was driving. The buggy was overturned and her arm was broken." She looked up at 'Zekiel. His face was grave, but he nodded for her to go on. "She stayed in bed for three weeks, and during that time she lived over her short life a hundred, yes, a thousand, times; she knew that her fancy had been but a fleeting dream. A suspicion that perhaps the young man had imagined her feelings towards him was what had nearly broken her heart. Supposing you were the man, 'Zekiel, and I were the woman in this little story, could you forgive me if I said I was sorry and would never do it again?"

"I am so glad," cried Huldy; "you have done me more good than the doctor, 'Zekiel;" and she dropped her head upon his shoulder.

'Zekiel was struck with an idea, "If I am a better doctor than the other one, Huldy, I ought to get a bigger price for my services than he does."

Huldy looked up. "What will your price be, Dr. Pettengill?"

"I think I shall charge," said 'Zekiel, "one hundred thousand dollars, and as I know you haven't got the money and can't raise it, I think I shall have to hold you for security."

He suited the action to the word, and they sat there so long, happy in their mutual love, that the Deacon and his wife came upstairs and entered the room quietly. When they saw the picture before them, thrown into prominence by the light of the fire, the Deacon said in a low tone to his wife, "I have thought so all along."

And as Mrs. Mason looked up into her husband's face she said, "I am glad on't."

JIM SAWYER'S FUNERAL.

Quincy obeyed the call to supper with alacrity. Possibly he thought he would be the first one at the table, but Cobb's twins were in their places when he entered the room. 'Zekiel came in next, and Quincy's quick eye discerned that there was a look of quiet contentment on his face which had not been there before.

Uncle Ike came down with Alice, and for the first time since her arrival she sat beside Quincy. For some reason or other the conversation lagged. Quincy surmised that 'Zekiel was too happy with his own thoughts to wish to talk, and Uncle Ike rarely conversed during meal time. He said he could not talk and eat at the same time, and as meal time was for eating he proposed to give his attention to that exclusively.

Quincy ventured a few commonplace remarks to Alice, to which she replied pleasantly. He was at a loss for a topic, when he remembered his last visit to Mrs. Putnam's and recalled his promise to bring Alice to see her some day.

He spoke of visiting Mrs. Putnam, and Alice's face immediately shone with pleasure. "Dear old Aunt Heppy! I must go and see her as soon as I can."

"If you can find no better escort than myself, I trust you will command my services, unless," said Quincy, "your brother thinks it unsafe to trust you with me."

"He won't be likely to let you drive, Alice," responded 'Zekiel dryly, "so I don't think there will be any danger."

As they arose from the table 'Zekiel said to his uncle, "I am coming up in your room to-night, Uncle Ike, to see you."

Quincy knew by this that the pleasant chat in the dining-room beside the fireplace was to be omitted that evening, so he went up to his own room and read until it was time to retire.

Quincy was up early next morning. He knew his uncle could not live long, but he wished to take the trained nurse to Eastborough Centre, so he might have the best of care during the short time left to him on earth.

He found 'Zekiel at the breakfast table, and beyond a few commonplace remarks the meal was eaten in silence.

"Are you going to Eastborough Centre to-day, Mr. Sawyer?" asked 'Zekiel.

"Yes," said Quincy; "I intended to go just as soon as one of the boys could get the team ready."

"I'll speak to Jim about it," said 'Zekiel. "If you will step into the parlor, Mr. Sawyer, I would like to have a few minutes' talk with you."

'Zekiel went out into the barn and Quincy walked into the parlor, where he found a bright fire burning on the hearth. He threw himself into an easy-chair and awaited 'Zekiel's return. What was up? Could 'Zekiel and Huldy have parted, and was 'Zekiel glad of it? Quincy, as the saying is, passed a "bad quarter of an hour," for he did not like suspense. The truth, however bitter or unpalatable, was better than uncertainty.

'Zekiel entered the room and took a seat opposite to Quincy. He bent forward and placed his hands upon his knees.

Quincy was equal to the occasion. He arose, stepped forward, and extended his hand. 'Zekiel rose also and grasped it unhesitatingly. Quincy said, "Accept my most sincere congratulations, Mr. Pettengill. I have known Miss Mason but a short time, but any man ought to be proud of her and happy in her love."

"Thank you, Mr. Sawyer," said 'Zekiel; "I agree with you in both the particulars you've mentioned, but both of us have what we consider good reasons for not having our engagement known in the village just at present, and to keep it a secret we need the assistance of a mutual friend."

"If I might aspire to that honor," said Quincy, "my time and services are at your disposal."

"That's what I told Huldy," said 'Zekiel, "but she was afraid that you would be vexed at what the gossips said about you and her; she's mad as a hornet herself, and she wants to teach them a lesson."

"Personally," said Quincy, "I don't care what the gossips say, but I was both sorry and indignant that they should have referred to Miss Mason in the way they did."

"Well," said 'Zekiel, "we have hatched up a sort of a plot, and if you will help us, all three of us will have some fun out of it."

"Well," inquired Quincy, "what's my share in the fun?"

"It's this," said 'Zekiel, "you know you used to take Huldy out to ride with you. To help out our plan, would you be willing to do it again?"

"Certainly," replied Quincy. "Miss Mason has been confined to her room so long I think she ought to have some fresh air."

Quincy did not think it polite to assent to this last remark and changed the subject by remarking, "This is a beautiful day. I am going to drive the nurse over to Eastborough; perhaps Miss Mason would like to accompany us. That is, if you can trust her with me."

"Oh, that's all right," said 'Zekiel; "Huldy had to pay pretty dearly for getting mad at the wrong time. Besides, I don't think she will want to drive horse again for a while."

Mandy rapped on the parlor door and called out that the team was ready.

Quincy assured 'Zekiel that he understood his part and would play it to the best of his ability.

When he arrived at Deacon Mason's house he found the latter just coming out of the front gate. As Quincy leaped from the team the Deacon came forward and shook hands with him. "You are just the man I want to see," he remarked. "I've paid our doctor, but I want to know what the bill is for the Boston doctor and the nurse."

"No," said the Deacon firmly. "She is my daughter, and it is my place as her father to pay such bills, until she has a husband to pay them for her."

Quincy said, "Deacon Mason, when I took your daughter out to ride it was my duty to return her to her home without injury. I did not do so, and I trust that you will allow me to atone for my neglect. Remember, sir, you have lost her services for several weeks, and the board of the nurse has been an expense to you."

"I prefer," rejoined the Deacon, "that the bill should be sent to me."

"Well," said Quincy, to close the discussion, "I will ask him to send you one;" mentally resolving, when it was sent, it would be a receipted one.

Quincy received a hearty welcome from Mrs. Mason, who said the nurse had her things packed and was all ready to go. He then told Mrs. Mason that he had a message for Miss Mason from Mr. 'Zekiel Pettengill, and Mrs. Mason said she would send Huldy to the parlor at once. Huldy greeted Quincy with a happy face and without any show of confusion.

"I had a long talk with Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy, "and he has induced me to become a conspirator. The first act in our comedy is to ask you if you will ride over to Eastborough Centre this morning with the nurse and myself, and get a little fresh air?"

"I should be delighted," said Huldy, "if you can wait long enough for me to dress."

"That's what I came early for," remarked Quincy. "How long will it take you?"

"Fifteen minutes," said Huldy.

"It is now half-past seven," remarked Quincy, looking at his watch. "You mean you will be ready by quarter of nine?"

"No," said Huldy, with a flash of her eyes, "I am no city lady. I am a plain, country girl, and I mean just one-quarter of an hour. You can time me, Mr. Sawyer;" and she ran gayly out of the room.

Quincy looked out of the window and saw that Hiram had put the nurse's heavy valise on the front seat of the carryall. The nurse herself was standing by the side of the team, evidently uncertain which seat to take. Quincy was quickly at her side.

"You can sit in here, Miss Miller," said Quincy, pointing to one of the rear seats; and when she was seated Quincy told Hiram to put the valise on the seat beside her. He had no idea of having Huldy take a back seat.

True to her promise, Huldy made her toilet in the appointed time, and taking her seat beside Quincy, he took up the reins. Turning to Hiram he asked, "If I drive by Hill's grocery and take the road to the left, will it bring me round to the main road to Eastborough Centre again?"

"Yaas," said Hiram, "you take the road where Mis' Hawkins's boardin' house is on the corner. You remember that big yellow house. You know I told you Mandy's mother kept it."

"All right," said Quincy, and off they went.

Quincy gave a side glance at Huldy. He discovered she was throwing a side glance at him. They both smiled, but said nothing. He drove around the big tree that stood in the centre of the square in front of the grocery, which brought the team quite close to the store platform. No one was in sight, but just as he reached Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house the door opened and Obadiah Strout came out. Huldy placed her hand on Quincy's arm.

"Please hold up a minute, Mr. Sawyer."

Quincy brought the horse to a standstill with a jerk and looked straight ahead.

"Yes," said Mr. Strout, "and I was coming down this morning to settle on the best time for you taking them."